


A Fluttering Touch

by OhNoItsMyra



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical Sex, F/M, Female Jon Snow, R Plus L Equals J, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, minor sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-04-27 02:19:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14415534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhNoItsMyra/pseuds/OhNoItsMyra
Summary: Lyarra, for her entire life, had a streak of red, dark as wine upon her hand. As a bastard, she was never meant to have a mark. The seven gods of the south preach that marks are meant for pious highborn couple. The old gods that lurk in the godswood tell a different tale of greatness to those bestowed are mark.Fem!Jon Snow





	1. Ned I

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Bequeathed from Pale Estates](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12789168) by [Author376](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Author376/pseuds/Author376). 



> Well here goes nothing. I should be working on my PotO fic. But instead I tackled this.

Ned observed his family as the king’s procession rode in through the gates of Winterfell. Many knights and the court rode in first. Most bore the crowned Baratheon stag, but an unnerving amount flew Lannister red and gold. When the king professed in letter his decision to ride North and visit, he smiled to himself. Until the king mentioned he would bring along the Queen and her brothers.

He had never spoken with the Imp, but Jaime alone had him turning his nose up from the Lannisters. No man who would stab the man he swore to protect could be company Ned would want to keep.

Then brought the matter of Cersei. She was beautiful and seemed queenly, based upon his last account of the lioness. But from the brief letters from Robert she was draining away his friend's life. Part of the unhappy marriage the two shared was his longing for Lyanna. He only wanted his northern bride, but instead got a cold lioness.

His love for Lyanna simply stemmed from his desire to be bound to Ned as a brother by law. 17 years had passed since her death and still the obsession grew and caused resentment to his wife. He loved Lyanna dead more than when she was alive. They had met briefly but had never touched so Robert held onto the belief that she was his one true love.

His thoughts were drawn away to focus upon the prince riding alongside the Hound. The prince had been a boy of 6 during the Greyjoy rebellion, and had not changed much. He still held a childish look. His hair was curly and fell down his back. He did not inherit much of the Baratheon look. At least as far as Ned could see from his position.

Behind the crown prince, wheeled in a large wheelhouse in Lannister colors. Before the gates it had to stop as Winterfell’s gates were not wide enough for a cart of that capacity. Bypassing the parked cart, rode Robert Baratheon.

The sight of his friend made Ned feel conflicted. Happy, once more to see his surrogate brother. As well as sad to see the deteriorated state of a man better fit for war than the politics of King’s Landing. He had to have gained 5 stone since the rebellion. The man who beat the chest of Rhaegar Targaryen in, was long gone and left a swollen husk of a man. He rode a poor horse unsuited for him, which was evident as it wobbled. The king used a step stool to dismount from the steed.

The inhabitants of Winterfell all kneeled when the king walked towards them. He gestured for them to rise and stared Ned in the eyes.

“You’ve gotten fat.”

Initially, he was taken aback but swiftly he gestured back to Robert with his eyebrows. The Kings guffawing laughter rang in the courtyard. Ned smiled as he saw once more the youth who had trained alongside him in the Vale.

Focusing on Ned’s brood, Robert mussed Rickon’s hair, before moving along to Robb.

“Ah boy you will make a fine heir to Winterfell.” He patted his shoulder and moved along to the girls and smiled and spoke a few words of their beauty. Sansa, of course beamed under the praise, but Arya simply glared. Ned would need to talk to her before Catelyn could. He finished his compliments to the Stark pack and got to the point.

“Ned, take me to her.” The present tense he used made Ned’s stony heart clench. Robert was one of the few besides his children that could insight much emotion from him.

“My love, we’ve been on the road for a few moons. The dead can surely wait.” The queen’s lilting voice rang out at she exited the litter.

Robert shot a withering look to her and stalked off bringing Ned with him.

~~~~~

“Lyanna should not be condemned to rot in the dirt of this dark place. She was a creature of flowers. Her grave should be in a field of flowers or atop a sunny hill.”

Ned winced at how little his friend understood the Starks, “Lyanna wanted to rest with her family, below her home.”

He had found his sister bloodied and broken in the tower. The efforts he put forth to defeat the last of the kingsguard was in vain and he found her already dying. She gave him care of the squealing, red babe and swore in to an oath to protect her. Promise me, Ned. Still he heard her broken voice ushering him into her vow.

“If only that dragon hadn’t stolen her away from me. She was my soulmate, I know it Ned.” The two had never even shared a touch and Lyanna bore no colored mark. Robert always held hope that they were meant to be even without the mark from the gods. His reasoning was that Rhaegar had stolen her away before they could ever touch

Soulmates and their marks were a fickle thing from the gods. Most did not bear any such mark. Ned would have went with the logic that it was all mummer’s farce, if it weren’t for his marked parents. His father relayed his brief understanding of being a soulmate.

When you touched your destined one, the mark would flit away. No shocking bolts or anything of notice. If you weren’t paying attention you would miss the disappearing mark. The only sign besides the missing mark was a decreased ability to have relations with those who weren’t your destined one.

“Neither you or Lyanna had a mark, your Grace.”

“Of course I bloody know that. A man can wish dammit.” His gaze softened, as Robert continued, “Ned you are the only honest person in this whole bloody kingdom. I keep thinking back to the days at the Eyrie, where we were together. And I want that back.” Ned felt this coming. What other reason did a king have for visiting the dreary North?

“Come back to King’s Landing, and be at my side again. I can go back to whoring and drinking, and you can build be an illustrious kingdom. Remember the saying?”

Ned knew it well, “What the King dreams, the Hand builds, your Grace.”

“Another version I hear: The king eats and the Hand holds the shit.” He continued his speech with:

“Please, Ned return to King’s Landing.” The king looked thoughtful for a moment. “You can take your girl south and we can discuss an arrangement between your girl and Joffrey. We can be brothers again.”

“Sansa is but a child still, your grace.”

“I swear if you call me ‘your grace’ one more time I’ll have your head on a pike.” He smiled through the threat and continued, “It’ll be a betrothal till she’s flowered. Take her and the wild one down to King’s Landing, they’ll be better for it.”

“Even if I were to accept it, Lyarra would have nowhere to stay. Catelyn is tolerant with me around, but I fear I’d come back with her joined to the silent sisters.”

“Your bastard?” Ned flinched at the derogative. “I didn’t see her earlier. Where was she?”

“Lady Catelyn thought it would be best if she was near the back of the crowd. To not offend you, your- Robert.” Cat and himself had quarreled over the placement for the weeks leading up to the visit. Besides the fact of his believed infidelity, Catelyn also resented Lyarra for having the Stark looks, while her own brood had the Tully coloring. She often feared comments on the nature of her children’s sire.

“Well, we can take the bastard south. I think if that would get you by my side again. I would allow you to bring a 100 bastards.” Ned was not put at ease by the King’s words. Winter was coming, and the North would need it’s Warden to guide it through the predicted harsh winter. Robb, he supposed could begin his rule a little earlier. Lesser men had done it before and prospered. Even he had begun ruling at 18 with the execution of Rickard and Brandon.

“At least think of it.” Robert groaned and yawned, “For once Cersei is right. I need rest before the feast.”

With that Robert left him to his thoughts among the stoney rulers. He looked back into the frigid eyes of his sister. If he brought Lyarra south, she would be thrust into a lion’s den. A dangerous place for her as every day she was less north and showed her Valyrian roots. If someone were to guess… He couldn’t think of these things. Ned would think, but the answer would be no. His promise to Lyanna was too important.


	2. Lyarra I

At times it was good to be the Bastard of Winterfell. The feast for the king was one of those moments.

The hall of Winterfell had  been decorated and cleaned  thoroughly for the King’s visit. The sores from lye on Lyarra’s hands could attest to the scrubbing.  The Lady Catelyn deemed since she had few duties, she should help the servants with the preparations for the King’s arrival . She neglected to remember the lessons Lyarra had. Even so, the hall's immaculacy had fallen  quickly with the near raucousness of the feast. Smoke had filled the halls and wine was spilt all across the stone floor.

Lady Catelyn had deemed her offensive to the King and his court, and sent her to eat with the maids.  The charcoal smudge upon her husband’s reputation and the source of her loathing, was not meant to eat near the royal family . At least she wouldn’t have to exchange pleasantries with the queen. That woman alone was enough to make her hide among the household. 

She had left the ladies to sit nearer to the men.  The maids and other girls were fine enough company, but with the men she could talk of weaponry and laugh at jokes not befitting a lady .  Some of the older men, who had fought in Robert’s Rebellion, would add that where swordplay  was involved she was  just like their beloved Lady Lyanna . Of course they made sure none of the Starks could hear them. Also she could feed Ghost a whole chicken without  being chastised . None of the other dire wolves were present. Ghost's quiet nature and smaller frame allowed her to remain unnoticed. The place she sat at was also near enough for her to peer at the high table. 

The queen was as lovely as one should expect. Her hair  was likened to wrought gold and her eyes a pale green, cold  just as the emeralds they resembled. The queen’s face had kept it’s maiden beauty through motherhood. High cheekbones and a sharp jawline gave her a regal appearance. The jaw was  clearly shared between her and her brother. Even the Imp, in his twisted visage, had the detailed work of Lannister blood.

The children also owned strong Western roots. All had fine golden hair and sharp bone structure. The eldest, Joffrey, seemed to take much from his mother and the two shared a distinct eye shape.  Perhaps it was  just the cold disdain towards the North that tainted the likeness in their eyes.

“Where is that bastard of yours, Ned?” The kings booming voice was  easily heard through the hall. Lyarra strained her ears to listen in on the conversation.

“I sent her to sit at the low table  as to not offend you, Your Grace.” Lyarra heard the regret in her father’s voice, but the fact of the words hurt. At least among the smoke she could pretend the stinging behind her eyes weren’t tears. The sadness  was replaced with anger at Lady Stark’s smug look. Lyarra felt the urge to smack the Lady of Winterfell. She often felt that way in Lady Stark's presence.

“Offend me? Ned, no child of yours could offend me. Call her up to the high table dammit. There’s plenty of room.”

In truth there wasn’t, for the king filled the place of three men, but still her father beckoned her up. The king wasn’t like the man from father’s stories. He might have been handsome once, but that was no longer the case.  Years of feasts and wine had tempered the Demon of the Trident into a man far to fat for his clothes, and possessing a  poorly concealed second chin . Where his beard may have struck a  kingly nature before, was now a  scraggly cluster of wine stained hair. 

“Lyanna…” Stark bannermen often looked at her and saw Lyanna. She could see sadness or confusion in the gazes many of them. Under the cloak of night or surprised by her,even those she had known for years saw Lyanna. But the look of lust in the King’s eyes startled her.

“Lyarra Snow, your Grace.” She ignored the look and plunged to a deep curtsy.

“Oh. You look  just like Lyanna.”

“So I’ve  been told , your Grace.” The sarcastic lilt to her voice came  involuntarily and she prayed to the gods that it wasn’t heard.

“The attitude of her as well!” The King detected the wit and took it in stride. 

“You definitely take more after Lyanna than this ugly bastard. Thank the gods for that.” She flinched at the obscenity and the sudden move of Robert clapping her father’s back. He forced a strained smile back to his friend.

She had seen the crypts and the stoney likeness of her aunt and saw little resemblance. They both shared the long Stark face and little else.  Lyarra’s bone structure was more delicate than most of the Starks and her lips were fuller and set in a frown unlike the carving of Lyanna . She saw some resemblance in the eyes, but Lyarra’s were larger and had a downcast tilt. Father also spoke that Lyanna did not  possess the unkempt curls of Lyarra’s.  In nature though, she possessed her father’s brooding tendencies and his cursed lack of articulation .

“Lyanna I remember was a swordswoman. What do you say?”

“I too have taken up the sword. I also practice some jousting and some spear throwing.”  Hastily , at the peering looks from the court ladies, she added, “Alongside my drawing and embroidery, of course .”

She was prone to blushing and felt one creep upon her face.

“A bastard girl trying to play knight. How quaint. Mother, you were right, the North is a savage place.” The Crown Prince’s nasal voice rose louder than he intended and reached his father’s ears. Again she blamed the smoke filled air for the stinging in her eyes and not the mocking tone of his voice. Lyarra thought that after many years of insults to her person the sting would fade. Instead, each slight seemed to pick at her heart.

“Son. This is the home of the best man I have ever known. You best watch your bloody tongue.” Whatever gusto the Prince had, it shriveled away with Robert Baratheon’s voice.

“Your grace. If you’ll excuse Lyarra, she needs to take Rickon to bed.”  Lady Catelyn piped up, it was clear to Lyarra that her pride  was injured at her husband’s infidelity getting the King’s attention . Even with the tainted rationale, the result of her action pleased Lyarra. She wanted nothing more than to lie in bed.

“Yes, you  are excused , my Lady.” The lecherous look remained in his eyes, but she still smiled at  being referred to as “lady”.

She gathered a dosing Rickon and swept him away from the hall. Lyarra did not fail in noticing the cold look the Queen gave her.

* * *

Dawn crept over the northern keep, bathing the structure in rosy light. Lyarra had been practicing in the dark of the morning for near two hours. Her eyes welcomed the consistent light as opposed to the flickering torchlight. She had a troublesome sleep and woke many times before deciding to return to the training yard.

Her troublesome curls escaped the  hastily woven braid and sweat had plastered them to her face . She hacked at the training dummy trying to find some sort of release to the feeling in her gut.  Lyarra had already gone through all her typical practice maneuvers twice and still felt like a coiled snake . 

Lyarra swept the sweaty curls back into the main mass of hair and paused to peak at the sunrise. She had taken lessons in swordplay as a girl alongside Robb.  It was not until she reached 10 namedays that Lady Stark insisted a bastard needed no further lessons . The spiteful woman still allowed her to join Sansa, Arya and their septa. Thank the gods Maester Luwin had shown her how to balance sums and read in a few different tongues. Without him her mind would be idle and she would've gone mad.

Even with the lessons from the old man and sit-ins with the girls, she found time early in the morning to practice her swordsmanship . Lyarra would spar with  nearly anyone who would have her. It had been a year or two since anyone had beaten her though. Lately she had taken up jousting. The idea of knights fascinated her, and their practices as well. It was not a common practice north of the Neck, so she struggled to find the proper equipment for it or a partner. Robb would follow her on most of her violent endeavors. This had led to a few unfortunate injuries from a mace and some unusual Skagosi weapon. Jousting  apparently drew a sour taste from her father’s mouth and they  were forced to stop. Lyarra still practiced the art in the early hours and got advice from Jory Cassel.  In the stagnant era of no practice she still rode well and every few months Jory would tilt with her in the field outside of Winterfell .

A few hours fled by and soon Robb joined her in the training field along with some of the King’s men. A small part of Lyarra hoped for one of the Kingsguard to join the field and offer a chance to spar. This was a useless hope as they would be with the king. Instead she fought with the new men. One knight in particular fought especially hard but she won out due to stamina.

The new opponents excited Lyarra and she hadn’t realised how much she  was bored with her current competition . She dreamed of traveling,  maybe join a sellsword company in Essos. They didn’t care much for bastardry and there were women allowed in some, if they were fit for them. She only needed to get there. Her funds were not yet high enough for a passage to the Free cities. 

She would somehow find a way to fight her way about the world.

* * *

Her wish came sooner than anticipated. She was currently in her room deciding on what to pack. In a few moon’s time she would be in King’s Landing. Many great knights had originated in the capital. Among the King’s party there were whispers of a tourney in honor of her father.

The journey  was delayed due to Bran’s fall. It seemed odd that he fell from walls he’d climbed since he could walk. But still he fell and hadn’t woken since. Lady Stark wouldn’t even let her visit the boy in his sleep.  The southron lady  probably thought the sin that seeped off a bastard would somehow affect Bran . Maester Luwin said he should awaken, but still his mother worried.

When Father had broken the news to them all he said little on what this would mean.  Lyarra almost cried at the thought of  being left at Winterfell with Lady Stark, as the woman would send her off to a the Silent Sisters or worse . Then her father told her she would be traveling down to the Red Keep with him, along with Arya and Sansa. The party would travel over land and she would see the sights of most of Westeros, albeit in short periods. Only if she could figure out what to pack aside from her sword and daggers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I created a tumblr for this fic and all Fem!Jon Snow: @a-fluttering-touch. PM me the work or submit them. Many, many thanks to CS98 and her amazing editing.
> 
>  
> 
> Anyways... Thoughts? Criticism? Comment below!
> 
> I don't know if it's showing up for anyone else but I have two sets of notes. Anyone know how to fix it? Ignore the bottom set.


	3. Oberyn I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oberyn mulls on his trip to King's Landing.

When Doran told him the news, he began to plot. Oberyn was to travel to King’s Landing and compete in the Hand’s Tourney. He knew the Usurper and all his cronies would be there. If a few choice men died from a horrendous infection of the blood, who would suspect a bit of foul play? Of course he would be the assumed perpetrator if they found poison but nothing could be proven without offending all of Dorne. Something that Jon Arryn had desperately wanted to avoid, considering that unlike his foster son, the Hand of the king had known perfectly well that this reign was unstable. In different ways than Aerys’ reign was, because Robert didn’t have a seemingly perfect heir. He had a future mad king. It would remain to be seen what would the honorable Ned Stark do.   
He didn’t know what he felt regarding the Starks. The Warden of the North had been the only one in King’s Landing to look for the Lion Lord’s head in the aftermath of the Sack. But the She-wolf had been the one to run away with Elia’s husband. Oberyn knew perfectly well that his goodbrother hadn’t kidnapped her. Elia was understanding and had a touch for romance. From the letters she had written she may have been infatuated with Lyanna Stark as well. He smiled at the memory of his romantic sister. The smile soured though, as all things seem keen to do.

He had little reservation now with the passing of Ellaria. Oberyn’s brash and sometimes cruel nature was tempered by her warm soul. She was his one true love, damn the gods and damn the mark upon his neck. When she died he swore an oath to not love another. Her and little Obella were not meant to die. He was helpless to do anything. He cursed the gods that took away his solace. Even still, he had spent too long sitting around and not doing his duty of avenging Elia, sweet and smiling Rhaenys, and Aegon who was just a babe.

If it were up to Oberyn, a Targaryen would already sit upon the Iron Throne and Elia’s murderers would be dead and their heads rotting on pikes. His brother took the long game and kept advising patience. If Dorne waited any longer the two heirs in the Free Cities would die and Doran would be too ill to rally the country. Even now he heard the girl was wedding into the Dothraki clans at only thirteen namedays. If she wasn’t dead now she soon would be. This tourney provided an opportunity to accomplish one goal.

If he couldn’t replace the Usurper with a rightful heir then at least he could assure an agonizing death to the perpetrators of the crimes against Elia and her babes. The one who gave the order would be difficult to kill but the men who had carried the act out would soon be in his grasp.

If Ellaria could see him now she would be disappointed with the man he was becoming. She wanted him to be a good father and a steady support for Doran. Even through the blood thirsty haze he could see the spiral of his downfall occuring. As long as he drew blood and the poison entered the murderer he wouldn’t care if he died. His daughters would grieve and try to avenge him. He trusted Doran could lead them away from revenge and care for them. He had assurance that even decades past his death they would retain funds and lie comfortably. 

“Are you done with your plots?” Doran said, “It’s been your turn for a few minutes.”

His eyes fluttered back to the cyvasse board. He hastily lined his catapult so he could soon take Doran’s dragon.

“Any new plots, or just the usual?”

“The same as always, Doran.” He deadpanned. Oberyn was prone to fidgeting when irked and began plucking at the skin of his nails.

“Patience, brother. Soon you will be in King’s Landing and you will find us the names. Tywin would keep such trusted men close.”

“Yes, but what of the Usurper? He gave the orders to murder Elia. The throne should rightfully belong to her children.” As Doran continued the game, Oberyn seethed and thrummed his fingers upon the table.

“We must have a Targaryen for the kingdom to rally.” Doran said. “Maybe once Willas is Lord of Highgarden the Tyrells will back us, but until then Westeros sees Dorne as a heathen filled country. No one will aid a Dornish ruler.”

“I’m tired of waiting. I am nearing my thirty sixth name-day. Before I die I wish to see the Usurper dead and Elia avenged.” His brother’s brow wrinkled. Doran also knew age was soon going to take them both. For his brother it was nearer every day, as his grout worsened.

“I as well. But with the dragons traipsing about the Free Cities we cannot make a play.” With that statement Doran moved and Oberyn took his dragon. He twirled it in his long fingers and smirked at his brother.

“It seems I now hold a dragon.” A smile lit his features. His relationship with Doran had been lacking when they were children. Doran was a man grown when Oberyn was a child. Distance widened as his brother had to learn the ways of a Dornish Prince, while him and Elia were left to bond. But during the years since Elia’s death they had grown close.

“Will any of your Sand Snakes be attending the tourney? I’m sure they would love to ‘watch’.”

“I fear if I brought any of my daughters, they would win the tourney and we can’t hurt the pride of the Usurper and his dogs.” Oberyn’s face grew dark, “Also a snake cannot fair well in a den of lions.”

“Neither can a snake in Dorne it seems.” Doran had played and now took his king. Oberyn glared at his brother beneath an arched eyebrow.

“Well since you have bested me, may I beg your pardon to go find more pleasurable company?”

“As long as this company doesn’t need some of Dorne’s funds.” Doran smiled impishly at his snark.

Oberyn left with a wink, robes billowing about him.

~~~

Even after fucking for hours, sleep evaded him. He lay awake with the two whores for an hour and still he could not tempt it. He hadn’t been able to sleep well since Elia had died. Ellaria had been there for the worst and could lull him to sleep with soft touches and keep away the nightmares. When she died four years later the wretched dreams returned.

He often dreams of his sister’s death. Elia’s wails as a faceless man in Lannister red rapes her. Other times her children are there, suffering the same fate. Rhaenys clutches at a little black kitten and Aegon bawls. A babe has little idea on what else to do. Other dreams involve the same fate to his beloved daughters or onto Ellaria. He is a mere spectator and witnesses without the ability to stop the carnage.

Feeling claustrophobic, Oberyn unwrapped the man’s arms from him and strode into his solar. He loosely wrapped a simple robe around himself and stood at the balcony. A cool breeze whipped about the smell of rain. In Dorne it rarely rained and any time it did it was thought as good luck. If he was fortunate it would rain as he left. The gods knew he would need it in the Red Keep. 

Just thinking of the vile place caused his fist to clench. Elia had hated the city and often made trips home when her health would allow it. 

He traced his fingers over his neck knowing where the mark sat by memory. The silver grey mark streaked across the back of his neck. Typically the mark was covered by the high collars of Dornish fashion. In King’s Landing he would be sure to hide it. He had never wanted to meet the one who would touch him and vanish away the mark. Actually he wanted nothing more than to have his mark disappear. Unless his soulmate was Dornish they would disdain his lifestyle and turn their nose up at his daughters. A rare chance that he would have his mark activated but still he worried. Ellaria’s first touch on his cheek should’ve been inked in red. Not the peaceful silver. Ellaria was passion incarnate. Unseen flicks of red adorned his body as he remembered her touch. It had been twelve years and still he felt her upon his flesh.

He cursed the gods then. For Elia, her children, Ellaria and Obella, and for the silver upon his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey sorry this is a little late! I loved all the comments I got. I'm just now getting around to replying. Please keep commenting ! I love all the critism and just thumbs up :)


	4. Lyarra II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joffrey is a little shit and chaos ensues.

So far the south was not suiting her. 

The warm dampness of the Riverlands clung to her body as a second skin. Her beautiful, dark curls clumped in an unattractive manner and when sparring with Arya and her butcher’s boy, sweat would pool off her. At least the heat wasn’t affecting her as badly as it affected her family. Just the humidity irked at her. The heat gave her father and Arya a shorter temper and burnt skin. Sansa took it in stride, choosing to abstain from complaining. Her Tully blood was stronger which may have given her an advantage above her very Northern family.

Arya’s yelp drew her from her thoughts. Arya and Micah, the butcher’s boy, had been sparring under her close eye and it seemed as Arya had been hit. 

“It’s only a stick Arry.” Lyarra shouted to them, “Better a stick than a sword.”

“He swung it hard though.” 

“Is that complaining from the Great Arya Stark I hear?” She grinned wolfishly at the girl. A girl who attempted to pull a pout before laughing. Her laughter turned to a scream of outrage when Micah hit her again. She ran after him with a startling battle cry. Arya Underfoot was quite a force to be reckoned with. If in the capital she could convince her father, Arya could train with her. 

Sansa, on the other hand, could be constantly seen on the prince’s arm, or with the queen. Lyarra, who had lived all her life observing people, knowing that people had fewer qualms about hurting her as a bastard, was aware that the Queen did not think highly of her sister. Or anything relating to the North. The prince was filled with cruelty as his father with gluttony. Usual bickering among sibling was replaced with near torture. The events were easily played off as an overreaction from Tommen and Myrcella. But Lyarra had seen how the little prince, who was kind with anyone who was kind to him in return, flinched away from his older brother. How the sweet princess did her best to shield her little brother. 

But she didn’t know how to tell this to Sansa without coming off as the bastard jealous of her trueborn sister’s good fortune. She knew Arya would believe her in a heartbeat, but her father wanted to believe the best of his best friend’s son, and the heir to the throne of the Seven Kingdoms. She couldn’t stop herself from imagining Sansa turning to a woman like the Queen, cold and wedded to a man she loathed. Her sweet little dreamer, becoming a petty and cruel woman, full of spite towards all those around her. Because Lyarra knew she wouldn't be happy, Sansa needed a man that was gentle and kind, not a boy whose madness was clear to anyone observant enough and not blinded by what they wanted to see. In his small acts of cruelty to those he perceived to be beneath himself. Lyarra wanted for Sansa a knight straight from her beloved songs.

Her thoughts must have summoned the cruel boy. Lady Stark often said thought of the devils drew them forth. She was right. Joffrey was comely in a way more befitting of a girl than a lad. His leering face seemed even powdered today. Sansa beamed at Lyarra for a moment, her face swiftly changed as if remembering that Lyarra was simply a bastard. 

The awkward staring was interrupted by Arya barreling past with Micah hot on her heels. The boy might have caught her if he hadn’t shriveled into a bow. Lyarra also remembered her place and made a curtsy. She hated every second.

“Arya?” Sansa’s voice caught into a shrill tone.

Joffrey’s leer widened to a grin, “Your sister?”

Sansa nodded shyly. Joffrey looked over the boy, “And who are you boy?”

Joffrey must be two years Micah’s junior but still he used the term boy. The prince’s arrogance shone through in all his actions

“Micah, m’lord.” 

“He’s the butcher’s boy.”

“He’s my friend!” Arya was so very willful and it made Lyarra tighten her face. She wished for the ability to smack the prince and send him far away. But she didn’t raise from her curtsy, too scared to intervene. Her sister would be pardoned for being rude, but a mere bastard? Ned Stark might not even be able to protect her from the Crown’s wrath. 

“A butcher’s boy wanting to be a knight.” He sniffed his nostrils in distaste, “The North has all manner of things wanting to be knights. A savage place it must be to encourage bastards and smallfolk to rise above their place.” The thinly veiled insult required Lyarra to dig her nails deep into the calloused flesh of her palm. How dare he to insult her home? To show such disdain for one of the kingdoms he was supposed to rule? This was the boy her sweet little sister was to marry?

“Well boy pick up your stick. Let’s see how good you are.” Joffrey unsheathed the gleaming iron of his sword. Micah was going to die. 

“What?” Arya shouted incredulously.

“That’s enough.” Lyarra hoped her voice was as firm as any knight’s.

“What? Bastard, you dare challenge you future king?” His face and voiced as a manic sense to them. Just the discord of him made Lyarra worry her lip. 

“No m’lord, I just meant,” She trailed off grasping for an idea. Her eye then caught the stick Arya had gripped in her palm. “I just meant this battle is unfair. It’s a stick not a sword.”

“And the boy is not a knight.” He said.

Micah began to blubber, “She ast me to. She did.”

“He was hitting a lady with a stick. He should be executed”

The tip of Joffrey’s pressed against the kneeling boys cheek. A bead of blood pooled in the cleft created.

“NO!”

Lyarra’s head jerked back at Sansa’s cry to late. Arya had already charged. A great thwack sounded as the stick splintered off the prince’s golden curls. Everything dove into chaos. Sansa was screaming, “No, stop you’re ruining it!. Stop!” Joffrey had turned and blocked off Arya’s second splintered blow shoving her back. Instead of sitting upon the ground and submitting she grabbed a rock and flung it, missing. Mycah had ran off down the Trident. 

Lyarra caught glimpse of a grey blur streaking past her. Acting swiftly she tackled the dire wolf. The crazed creature fell in a ball of claws and teeth. Sharp claws struck Lyarra deep into her face and she promptly let go. Ignoring the stinging on her face she leapt up to see Nymeria biting the prince’s arm. Her blood run cold, there was no coming back from this. After the bite she let go and licked her jowls clean of the blood. The soaked red fabric contrasted the Baratheon gold. The doublet had been converted to Lannister colors. What an eerie thought that was.

`Arya quipped that he wasn’t hurt too much and she wanted to shake her willful sister. How could she not realise how serious was the problem they had gotten into?

“Arya!” She grabbed the girls shoulder and pulled her so they were eye to eye. “You need to run Nymeria off. She will be executed if you do not. The king’s men will hunt her down and use her coat to warm the Queen’s shoulders. You need to run far away right now. Nymeria will follow. Ghost will have to follow as well.” Because Ghost wouldn’t be safe, no matter that she hadn’t done anything. Ghost would listen, but she suspected Nymeria would need stones. “If you get back in time I may need help freeing Lady. She’ll be smart enough to find her packmates.”

Arya was nodding with slowly growing horrified look. She placed it to the grim situation, until she felt blood drip into her eye. She touched her face and her hand came back bloody. Well this explains the pounding, she thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this has to be my favorite chapter so write so far. So sorry it took so long!
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please tell me what you like! Tell me what you didn't!
> 
> Cheers :)


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